


holy wounds & holy wars (we can let it slide)

by possibilist



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, where tf did this come from who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 21:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6025246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possibilist/pseuds/possibilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'you loved her as best you could, as best as you will ever be able to love another, and there’s something that healed a little in your chest when the person who took her away from you finally died. you finally killed that edge of the particular ghost of a knife.'</p><p>canon, 304 stuff & after. lexa is so extra it's wild. what a kid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	holy wounds & holy wars (we can let it slide)

 

 _you heal me with a smile / lights out, i finally see you clear / so cool, so calm, so near / no fate, no words could seal / you’re magic & you’re real_  
—big deal, ‘pi’

//

after you walk from the arena, titus and indra kind of surround you a little bit and it feels, almost, like after your conclave, expect no one is rushing up to kiss you and tell you that they are infinitely proud, that you are _good_ , that the world will always be better with you in it, that you’re ridiculous and small and arrogant and so very alive.

but.

clarke is looking at you like you like you’re some sort of _human_ , like you just did something big and important but like you’re still just a girl, maybe someone she could love, and maybe she knows you love her. 

she looks glad you didn’t die, in _awe_ that you didn’t die, and you straighten your spine and refuse to limp even though adrenaline is leaving your body and it wants to slump in relief.

you don’t process anything but the politics of your actions while titus is speaking to you—it was a _brilliant_ move, but you’ve always been good at those, you knew that—and indra says some logical things for your next moves, and you nod solemnly. you don’t exactly trust yourself to speak right now, like your voice might break, and it makes you feel younger, like when you were first called to be commander and hated every moment you had to make a big grand speech about war, about not going to war, and hope you didn’t mistranslate, or misspeak, or sound scared.

eventually, after not too long, you end up in a private room in the healers’ center, and you wait for maybe a minute before sina comes quietly into the room. you swallow and clench your jaw and she stands very still for a moment before she shakes her head with a small smile, like she would when she’d catch you running off with her daughter, your hands full of flowers instead of swords and scars and blood, and your tummy swoops and everything comes rushing forward in a second, hard, knocking the breath out of you like stone.

her arms are around you in a second, soft and she smells like costia, faintly of flowers and vanilla, and her body is soft and she’s always been so remarkably gentle to you, and you _cry_. you’ve not cried like this in years, not even after you left clarke, and you’ve waited three _years_ to feel the kind of relief you do now. finally, _finally_ , some of the blood has been wiped from your hands, and what you did today can never bring costia back, can never take away how sometimes your bones ache, how you have slept in an empty bed for 1093 days (you have not spent one without counting, without _knowing_ ), how you dream of costia sometimes, her dark skin and dark eyes and how sometimes you _swear_ you could see the stars in them when you snuck out at night and found your way to a field of flowers at the edge of the city, her hand soft and warm in yours. 

you loved her as best you could, as best as you will _ever_ be able to love another, and there’s something that healed a little in your chest when the person who took her away from you finally died. you finally killed that edge of the particular ghost of a knife.

eventually you take a huge shuddering breath and it hurts your ribs; you back up with a grimace and sina lets you go with a little laugh, which doesn’t make any sense but you find yourself smiling back.

there’s smudges of warpaint on her shirt and she laughs again. ‘a true nightblood,’ she says, and you know you most likely have gotten warpaint all over your face at this point, and she gets a washcloth and a basin. the water is warm and she’s gentle, making sure your skin is being washed properly. it’s been ages since someone last washed your warpaint off for you—costia, probably, you think—and you sigh heavily so you don’t cry again.

‘so,’ sina says after a while, ‘i saw wanheda watching you. intently.’

you wince when she swipes under your right eye, and she inspects the cut there with a little frown, then apparently decides you don’t need stitches. ‘it was beneficial for her people that i not die,’ you offer, but sina grins. 

‘i have seen you look at her, too, _leksa_ ,’ she says.

‘it’s beneficial to do so when trying to maintain peace treaties.’

‘with pretty girls.’

you must be blushing because sina laughs and smooths your hair for a moment. 

‘i am teasing, _yongon_ ,’ she says, and if it was anyone else who called you by your name and then a child, you would be outraged, but instead you just roll your eyes. 

‘i have seen twenty summers, now. i am not a child.’

she shakes her head fondly, because maybe that did sound rather childish, and she takes your hand in both of hers. the cut across your palm is long but not too deep, and there are slices along the soft pads of your fingers as well. sina inspects everything with quiet focus, then sets your hand down gently and inspects the slash along your arm. it doesn’t hurt all that much, not like your hand, and then she tells you to stand. she helps you without a word because your leg hurts, and your ribs ache, and the back of your head is so sore your see little colorful spots in your vision and you almost throw up. sina raises a brow at you when you’re able to focus and she says, ‘you certainly have a concussion, then.’

‘i am fine,’ you say, a somewhat automated response, and sina sighs. 

‘you are no good to your people if you do not heal properly, head,’ she says.

she’s right, you know she is, and you wait a moment before you nod. 

she helps you take your light armor off, then your shirt, then your pants. it’s an aching process, and your body feels sluggish and sleepy. sina looks over the rest of your body, gently prodding a few mottled bruises already blooming along your ribs, pauses for a moment and swallows at the tattoo spreading there. you’ve had it for years, and it was— _is_ —for costia. the bones protecting your heart, you had said, and she had kissed you. 

‘nothing is broken, i don’t think,’ she says, and you almost cry again. 

but then she presses against your neck and you wince because the base of your neck is sore too, and sina lets out a small laugh when she sees your back. you scowl even though you know she can’t see, and she says, ‘is this for wanheda?’

‘clarke,’ you say, almost automatically, because clarke is full of anything but death.

‘ah,’ sina says, ‘so that is a yes.’

‘it is not,’ you say, probably too insistently. 

‘ _sha_ , heda.’ she comes back to face you, and you sit down heavily once more while she looks at the bruise on your thigh. ‘you are transparent, _ai yongon_.’

you close your eyes for a moment to stop the slight spinning of the room, and there is no point arguing with sina; she watched you fall in love for years and in many ways you _are_ her child and if your feelings are safe with anyone, it’s her.

‘i will not allow another to hurt her,’ you offer, and sina nods. 

the room is heavy, in that moment, but then sina says, ‘a bath is ready for you; do not stay in too long, and i will bandage everything afterward. keep your hand out of the water, heda.’

you nod and allow her to help you up and walk the short distance to the baths. there are a few other healers or those being trained who you pass; at one time you might have been self conscious of just being in your bindings in front of them, but your body has not belonged to you in a while either, not in a solid way: _all_ of you belongs to your people, scars and bruises and your hand sliced in two, the black blood spilling from your nose and the split in your lip so unfit to kiss gently. they all bow almost reverently as you pass, and your head is fuzzy but you remember to nod so that they rise.

two of your attendants are waiting and adna gives you a very soft hug—neither of you will speak of it, but you have known one another since you were twelve, and she is your friend—and marika helps you undo your bindings and slip out of your underwear and then sink into the water with a soft, ‘we are glad for your victory, heda.’

you nod. ‘as am i.’

they both laugh a little and it’s not all that often that you joke, but they are near your age and they _are_ as close as you have ever had to having friends in a long time. you make sure to hold your hand above the water and it’s warm and your muscles release a little. marika starts to deftly take out your braids and adna offers you a bar of soap, and you consider it for a moment but you’re so _tired_ that you shake your head.

‘you may do it, thank you,’ you say quietly, and she nods.

‘ _sha_ , heda,’ she confirms, then softly and uniformly makes sure your skin is scrubbed clean from dirt and blood and the water is tinted grey when she’s done, and you’re paler than normal, but you have not felt this young—this much like _leksa_ , the small girl born by the sea, with eyes like mossy stones and a mother and father who loved her, gifted with blood the color of night, full of a bloody, relentless spirit who has died so many times—in years. 

you work hard to not fall asleep and eventually adna helps you from the bath after marika has gently washed your hair, and you sit as still as possible for a few minutes in a robe while she works the tangles out from your curls. 

‘your braids, heda?’ she asks.

you pause for a moment and then shake your head. ‘just leave it to dry, that’s fine.’

you _know_ they share a glance behind you and you roll your eyes. ‘i am tired and have much to do before i can sleep tonight.’ 

it’s a flimsy excuse and you know they have their suspicions regarding your feelings toward clarke, but neither of them say anything. you make the walk back to the previous room you’d been in by yourself, although you have to pause once, and when you get back sina frowns when she sees the lack of assistance. 

‘stubborn girl,’ she says, but it’s full of affection and you sit down again, and she takes your hand and wastes no time in cleaning out the cut, dousing it in disinfectant and patting your thigh once when you take in a deep, sharp breath and fight off the urge to tug your hand away; it may not have hurt while you were fighting, because you were focused and you are a _warrior_ , you know how to block out pain, how to exist entirely inside your body and outside of it at once, but now you are allowed, in this room, to be a girl, and it _hurts_.

sina puts a poultice on the cut that immediately starts to soothe the burn from the disinfectant, and she says, ‘it will not do me any good to put stitches into this, will it, _yongon_?’

she’s smiling and you meet it and shake your head. ‘i must use my hands, they would only come out.’

she sighs and wraps a bandage around your hand, then one around your arm, then tells you to lift your arms slightly and wraps cloth tightly around your ribs where they’re already bruised. she points to a clean set of clothes folded neatly on a cabinet and you say, ‘i can dress myself, thank you.’

‘okay,’ she says, then swallows and leans forward to kiss the top of your head. ‘thank you, _leksa_.’

your lip trembles and you nod. 

‘and, you know, costia—’ her name catches a little on the name, and your hand _stings_ — ‘she would have wanted you to be happy. that is all she ever wanted for you.’

‘i will always love her very much,’ you say, and it’s some kind of comforting tether and some kind of release at the same time.

‘you can love another,’ she says, and you sigh. you don’t need to tell her that you already do, that you kissed clarke in the middle of a war as gently as you have ever kissed anyone, that you dream of her sometimes at night, how her body is softer than yours and sometimes you wonder if she fell from the sky to conquer the world with you, that if anyone can bring peace—to you, to your people—it’s her, with these brave, steady hands and hair like the stars.

she helps you up and you stubbornly don’t allow her to assist you in dressing; you have granted yourself enough weakness for the day, and your clothes are loose and dark and soft, like she knew. she gives you a hug, though, and reminds you to eat and sleep enough tonight, that your brain and body need—and deserve—to heal if you are to be of help to anyone, before titus meets you outside the room and then escorts you back to your tower. you have manners to address, briefly, and you sit on your throne and attend to them with titus’ help when you forget a word briefly, or cannot entirely advise on a move. he excuses everyone much earlier than you normally would allow when you yawn for the sixth time, but no one thinks you weak. 

clarke had not been in to see you, and the thought nags at you, because you should address things with her as well, as an ambassador. when you say so to indra as she’s walking with you to your room—your hand softly clutched around her forearm, and she says nothing of it—her mouth tilts up in a little smile.

‘wanheda was proud, today.’

‘as she should be,’ you say, and indra laughs. it’s so rare and you’re a little delighted. ‘i fought brilliantly.’

‘you did, heda.’

you reach your room and indra then looks at you very seriously. 

‘you are quite worthy, _leksa_ ,’ she says, then squeezes your arm. you nod because you don’t know what to say at all, and she says, ‘your morning appointments have been postponed.’ you’re about to protest when she prods at your ribs and you can’t hold back a groan. 

she lifts a brow and you sigh. ‘ _mochof_ , indra.’

‘ _reshop,_ heda.’

marika is waiting when you enter your room, and you stand there for a moment trying to _think_ before you say, ‘my nightgown, please.’

she _smirks_ and says, ‘ _sha_ , heda,’ and then goes to your wardrobe and pulls out a silk gown. you’d never actually wear it to _sleep_ , you prefer a loose shirt with short sleeves and your underwear on most nights, but that isn’t appropriate to speak to clarke in.

a nightgown might not be either, but you never get to wear it, and it’s beautiful, and maybe, _maybe_ for this small time in years, you want to look pretty.

you slip off your boots and socks, take off your clothes and bindings and put the nightgown on, and then marika offers you a small tin of perfumed balm, and you _blush_ and roll your eyes but take it anyway and put some gently on your neck, down your shoulders. it smells like vanilla and lilac and something so earthy, and she knows it is your favorite. there are specs of sparkles in it, and it makes your skin soft. you don’t normally have time for softness, but you allow yourself some tonight, for the first time in very long.

you sit down for a moment and marika gestures to a basin filled with warm water that she brings over to set on the floor by your feet. it’s an antiquated and entirely ceremonial custom in your culture, to shave your legs, and you haven’t in a while—there was no need—and there still isn’t really a need now, but it does make them soft, and you remember kissing clarke and how smooth her skin is and how once, talking to octavia, she’d told you about some of the ‘beauty routines’ that persisted on the ark after the bombs (with a hint of absolute _disgust_ , which had made you smile). 

you certainly do _not_ fall asleep while marika shaves the course hair from your legs skillfully—you remember trying to do it a few times yourself when you were younger, and you’re deftly trained with knives but you were terrible and clumsy when it came to this, and it had made costia _laugh_ while you scowled and told her to be quiet—and you focus again (it’s not waking up, because you’d never slept) when marika stands and quietly says, ‘i am finished, heda.’

you nod. ‘ _mochof_ ,’ you say, then stand, sweep your hair over one shoulder. you smell nothing of blood and battle and your skin, despite its scars and the tattoos you have carefully chosen, is _soft_. smooth. you look in the mirror and marika grins: in another world, you are a girl who has nervously fallen in love. 

and you are _pretty_. 

you do not look like _heda_ , either, not really. in this moment you are _leksa_ , and you know you will never have the complete luxury, but right now, you are a pretty girl with eyes like stones from the river who smells like flowers, thin with smooth skin—you are a girl that maybe someone could love back.

marika is grinning when you turn around and she says, ‘i will ready your bed, heda, then make myself scarce.’ 

you almost both laugh, but you merely nod. ‘goodnight, marika.’

she does laugh, then. ‘goodnight, heda.’

when you get to clarke’s room, you knock gently and wait for her to open the door, and you feel a little sick, like your heart is going too fast, and you take a deep breath, because you united your coalition again today; you killed a woman you hated with every fiber of your being; you defeated a brilliant warrior in combat: you can talk to a girl you like.

but then clarke opens the door and she’s beautiful, and you feel almost _drunk_ , but you think she looks like the sky and the stars and she’s in a gown and her voice is nice—low and gravely and you like it a lot, even though you would never admit that aloud to _anyone_ —when she says, ‘is this i told you so?’

‘no,’ you say, and you’re nervous, but you try to act like you’re simply dealing with business. ‘this is thank you.’

she seems to accept this easily enough and invites you in, and your tummy swoops and you trip a little and try not to blush, but you think she definitely stares at your leg and you feel a slight thrill of satisfaction. then clarke takes your hand, and it’s soft and electric and there are so many things you will never say, but you really, really don’t want her to let go. she sees your bandage—the black blood that is just barely starting to seep through—and then tells you to sit.

you wait for her, try to stay sort of small, because this is _her_ space, and you thank her again, and your heart sinks a little when she says it was merely for her people, but you remember earlier when she was frantic over _your_ life, not the life of merely the commander, and you wonder if clarke is as terrible as you are at dealing with emotions. after you speak of the ontari, clarke makes a quip that you’re unsure of for a moment, but then a small smile sneaks its way up the corners of her mouth, so you smile too. 

then she asks you a serious question—of forgiveness, and you know she’s talking about today, about your ambassadors, but you have not built a coalition from reading at merely a surface level into what people say.

‘they were doing what they thought was best for their people, too,’ you say, hope it’s not wrong, that it won’t anger her, and clarke looks at you then at your hand, then stands. 

you feel disappointed for a moment and stand too, but then clarke looks at you with something very soft, and you hold your breath a little when she says, ‘ _reshop_ , heda.’

you take her in, soft in candles and the moon and the stars, and she has always been full of light, then say, ‘goodnight, ambassador.’

she watches you as you walk out, and you look back once, quickly, and you feel relieved and disappointed and almost _uncomfortably_ in want of her to touch you—you’ll ignore that one, at least, until later—and you are also sad; you will never _not_ be sad, you think, no matter how good final vengeance felt.

you are, however, kind of excited, and you feel young and at a kind of peace you have never known before; there is something in clarke you recognize—know again—that you have never seen in another person, and you think she is learning about forgiveness too, because she held your hand kindly and, you think, _wants_ to stay here, in your city, in your _home_.

marika has indeed turned down your bed when you get back to your room, and there are plenty of candles to turn the room into a soft glow, a vase of flowers on a dresser, some gentle incense in a bowl by your wash basin. it makes you _laugh_ , just a little, and you change out of your nightgown into a soft shirt and set about blowing out the candles before you crawl into bed. usually it is much too big, achingly empty, but tonight your body is sore and tired and your spirit is still. your head is fuzzy and it aches and you fall asleep so quickly, the furs and silk so soft against your legs. 

you are awoken the next day by a knock at the door, and it takes you a few moments to get your eyes to stay open; you rub them and yawn and the sun is already high in the sky, you see, when you look out your window. you don’t bother to put on pants when you shuffle to your door—you’re stiff and soreand you are still so sleepy—and whatever healed during the night of the cut on your hand splits open painfully when you grasp the knob.

you almost laugh when aden stands expectantly, clarke just behind him.

‘heda,’ he says, then raises a brow. ‘wanheda and i had breakfast and she was concerned about the state of your bandages, so i said we would come check on you.’

‘did you just wake up?’ clarke asks, and she’s grinning, and you’re too tired to know if that’s you’re endearing or merely just amusing.

‘yes,’ you say. ‘sina said that i have a concussion and sleep was a necessity.’

‘she’s right,’ clarke says. ‘you also need to make sure you eat.’

aden holds up a bag of _something_ with a grin. ‘i told wanheda they’re your favorites,’ he says as he hands them to you.

you _know_ they’re honey cakes from your favorite stand in the market, which you very rarely ever have, and it takes every ounce of self control you have to not open the bag and start eating one right in the doorway. 

clarke laughs and looks to aden. ‘why don’t you go let titus know that sleeping beauty here is awake and somewhat coherent, and i’ll see to it that her bandages are properly changed.’

‘ _sha_ , wanheda.’ he nods to you, and you roll your eyes and put out an arm, and he smiles and then kind of bruisingly hugs you.

‘ _mochof_ for the cakes, aden,’ you say. he nods into your chest and then backs up, bows a little and then leaves with a very small, ‘bye, clarke,’ which makes you grin.

clarke walks past you (without permission) into your room and goes about setting some bandages down and then filling your wash basin.

‘nice PJs,’ she says as you sit down on your bed and take a cake out of the bag with your good hand.

‘what?’ you ask, your mouth full, but you don’t care in that moment because you are _really_ hungry and so tired and things are a little soft and blurry around the edges still. 

‘pajamas,’ clarke says. ‘bed clothes,’ she tries again, and you nod. ‘i didn’t think anyone would actually sleep in that nightgown,’ she says, and then laughs.

‘i could have,’ you try, and she rolls her eyes, then sets the wash basin on the small table by your bed as you get out another cake.

‘ _sure_ , lexa,’ she says, then grins, and you laugh around a bite. ‘whatever you say.’

you really have no argument that would serve as anything less than embarrassing, so you just hum a little and eat the cake as she undoes the bandage on your upper arm, washes it with warm water, then puts a salve along the cut and bandages it again with fresh cloth.

‘those really are your favorite, huh?’ she asks, gesturing to the bag of cakes. there’s one left and you’re full but you’ll eat it anyway, you don’t care.

‘yes,’ you say. ‘since i was a child.’

‘they smell good.’

you nod, then hold out the last cake, entirely uneaten. ‘would you like to try?’

clarke shrugs. ‘sure,’ she says, then rips off a piece and hands you the rest, pops it into her mouth.

there is _really_ mortifying heat that pools between your legs when she moans and then licks her fingers, and you have no doubt your cheeks are flushed and you stare at a spot across the room on the floor so maybe she won’t notice.

‘holy fuck,’ she says, whatever that means, ‘no wonder those are your favorites.’

‘they are the best,’ you say around a bite, and she laughs again.

‘give me your hand,’ she says, and she bandages the cut there the same ways she did your arm while you explain to her how the cakes are made. 

when she’s done she hands you a damp towel to wipe off your good hand—it was sticky from the cakes, and you’d kind of eaten them _maybe_ too fast—and then tells you to stand.

‘your healer said that your ribs might be broken, definitely bruised.’

‘yes.’

‘i’m going to lift your shirt, okay?’

‘okay,’ you say, and you desperately will your body to not _tremble_ when she does so. she lifts your shirt to only below your breasts, though, then tells you to hold it there while she undoes the stretchy bandage around your torso. her hands are quick and her touch is gentle—you still jerk away from her with a wince—when she prods along the bruise that is now almost black underneath your skin, though. 

‘you really should take today off, you know. maybe tomorrow, too.’

‘i feel sleepy,’ you admit, and she smiles a little and then gets out a new bandage.

‘this is a beautiful tattoo,’ she says, wrapping over it.

‘for costia,’ you tell her, almost a whisper, and she just nods.

she finishes in silence and then tells you that you can let go of your shirt and sit back down. you do and clarke cleans up a little and then tells you, ‘i like them. your tattoos, i mean.’

‘i like them too.’

‘you’re supposed to say thank you when someone gives you a compliment, you know.’

you shrug. ‘i do like them, though.’

she laughs and you give up on trying to do anything productive today because your head aches too much and you can’t really focus on anything substantial. you like back in bed, propped up against your headboard. 

‘i’m sure titus can hold down the fort for today,’ clarke says when she sees your eyes start to droop.

‘i don’t know what that means.’

clarke laughs. ‘i’m sure he can take care of matters for one day, lexa, if you need to rest. i’ll make sure nothing goes awry, if that makes you feel better.’

‘titus is quite competent,’ you agree, ‘as are you. you can probably have the day off too, if you like.’

‘yeah?’

‘yes.’

‘in that case,’ clarke says, then flops down next to you and pats your tummy, and you don’t know what happened between last night and this morning, but _something_ did, and you’re glad for whatever it was, ‘i could use a nap. you’re so fucking stressful.’

‘i like naps,’ you say, then scoot down and curl up on your side, close your eyes with a sigh. clarke shifts behind you and you use your good hand to reach behind you blindly and find hers, then tug it over your chest. she smiles against your skin and scoots closer and her body _is_ just as soft as you’d imagined.

‘i think you’re trying to seduce me, commander.’

‘ _sleep_ ,’ you say.

‘you don’t have any pants on.’

‘i do not prefer to sleep in pants, clarke.’

‘you have glitter perfume on your neck.’

‘i don’t know what this word ‘glitter’ refers to, clarke.’

she laughs into the nape of your neck and it’s warm and makes you shiver.

she’s finally quiet and you’re certainly warm and content and so close to sleep when she whispers, ‘for the record, i am still kind of mad at you, but you were beautiful last night and i wanted to kiss you.’ 

‘i always want to kiss you,’ you admit, even though you really didn’t mean to; you’re too tired to try not to.

‘i’m very kissable.’

‘yes,’ you whisper, and it’s almost impossible to stay awake, but then one thought nags at you: ‘clarke,’ you ask, ‘what does this ‘fucking’ mean?’

she laughs delightedly. ‘go to sleep, lexa.’

‘okay,’ you say.

there are things to address another time, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> come chill @possibilistfanfiction on tumblr if u want


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